


Fifteen Dates Ray Never Had (And One He Did)

by Ignaz Wisdom (ignaz)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, ds match
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-27
Updated: 2007-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/Ignaz%20Wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray hadn't just <i>moved on</i>.  He'd moved out, moved along, moved cross-country and, apparently, internationally.  He'd moved on with a <i>vengeance</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifteen Dates Ray Never Had (And One He Did)

**Author's Note:**

> For DS Match, Team Romance, Prompt: "It's not a hobby — it's a way of life." This was inspired in part by JS Cavalcante's "Such Things As Angels," which posits a similar idea. dessert_first went over it time and again, so anything good in it is probably due to her. Thank you to llassah for the second title and to all of Team Romance for their cheerleading and feedback!

When Stella walked into the 2-7 on Wednesday afternoon, Ray was out of his chair, across the room, and at her side in under three seconds.

He fell into step next to her, walking real close, like he used to when they were still together. "Hey, Stella, you got any news on the Stuart case?"

Her clipped answer matched the tattoo of her heels across the squad room floor. She didn't even look at him. "When I have news, Ray, I'm sure you'll be the first to know."

"Great. Greatness. Listen, I was thinking. Tomorrow night, you and me, there's this great new Greek place just a few blocks from my place, very high class—"

"Ray." She stopped, spun, and looked him dead in the eye. "How many times do I have to say 'no' before you get that this is _over_?"

He watched her back as she stalked into Welsh's office, then nodded to himself. Then he turned around and returned to his desk where he sat, his hand covering his mouth, concealing a satisfied smile.

His work here was done.

***

It had been four months, two weeks, and three days since he realized he wasn't in love with Stella anymore.

He'd probably been out of love with her even longer than that, but it took him a while to figure it out. Loving Stella had been as natural to Ray as breathing for so long; the change, when he noticed it, came as a surprise. But four months, two weeks, and three days ago, there it was, crystal clear: he and Stella were doneski. He had, as they say, _moved on_.

Since then, he'd made exactly fourteen passes at Stella and been shot down exactly fourteen times.

Ray Kowalski was no stranger to rejection. He'd been getting rejected most of his life, mostly by Stella, occasionally by other women — the latter more so since the split. He was used to it; he could handle fourteen 'no's from Stella. Sure, some of 'em stung — one of the problems with hitting on the woman he'd been in love with for most of his life, the woman who knew exactly what buttons to push — but since he didn't want to get back together with her anyway, he had no real complaints.

Fourteen passes, fourteen rejections. Fourteen public humiliations.

Because Ray hadn't just _moved on_. He'd moved out, moved along, moved cross-country and, apparently, internationally. He'd moved on with a _vengeance_.

Right on to Benton fucking Fraser.

Whatever screwball part of his brain thought it was time for him to get over Stella must have decided that finding another beautiful, out-of-his-league woman just wasn't moving on enough. No, no, his brain said, why _move_ with all your baggage when you can just torch the place, torch everything you've ever known about life, and get a sudden freaky fixation on your straight, male partner?

It was Christmas when he figured it out. He'd just hauled Fraser's stubborn self back to the station, covered in cuts and bruises and broken six ways to Sunday, all from trying to stand up for a little bit of justice and _rightness_ in Chicago, a place that wasn't even _home_ for him. And there was Stella, telling them there was nothing they could do about it, no way to nail Warfield for setting his goons on Fraser — which, okay, wasn't her fault, and was also pretty much what Ray himself had been saying all along — but there was Fraser, bloodied face and sad eyes, the hands-down best person Ray had ever known, the person who made Ray feel like he was really something, the guy who made him remember that he actually believed in things like justice and the goodness of humanity, and something inside Ray's head just clicked. Stella was out and Fraser was in. Which was a rush and a little scary but otherwise not a problem, except:

He and Fraser spent basically all their time together. At work, after work, extra shifts, weekends. There were days when they ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner together; days when Ray spent more time with Fraser than he spent without him. Also, they walked too close together. Ray couldn't help it, it was like he and Fraser were two magnets who got stuck to each other's sides anywhere they went. Worse though: he couldn't stop himself from staring at Fraser a little too long sometimes, and touching him — his hand, his shoulder, the small of his back — more than the average guy might touch another guy. Ray had caught Huey and Dewey looking at him funny after more than one of those incidents.

He tried getting himself _un_-attracted to Fraser, _un_-interested in Fraser, but the almost twenty-five years he spent being in love with Stella made it clear that his un-attractor was broke. When he was into someone, he was into them for _good_. "Till death do us part" good, mostly. Plus it was Fraser, and nobody got un-interested in Fraser without suffering some kind of brain damage, and if Frannie was any indication, even that wouldn't help.

It made a weird kind of sense. If there ever was an excuse to take a day trip to Queersville, Fraser was it. Women _and_ men practically tripped over themselves — sometimes literally — to get close to him. And it wasn't like Ray was a stranger to Queersville, either. He wasn't a regular there, like he was in Rejection City, but he'd driven through it once or twice or three times and he knew his way around. He was not, however, going to be setting up shop permanently anytime soon, and he wanted to make damn sure everyone around him knew it.

If that meant following Stella around like some lovesick puppy just waiting to get kicked again and again, well — all right then.

***

Fraser didn't approve.

Of course, Fraser had no idea why Ray was _really_ still hung up on Stella, so his disapproval was a little misguided, and for once, Ray wasn't the least bit bothered by it.

"Ray," Fraser said after number fifteen, when Ray asked Stella to join him for a weekend picnic and Stella told Ray where he could stick his picnic basket, "I think your ex-wife has made it very clear that she does not wish to go out on a date with you." _The divorce might have been a clue_, his tone implied, but his face was perfectly pleasant while he said it.

"Hey," Ray answered, indignant, "you don't know that. You don't know her. I know Stella," he insisted. "I was married to her for years."

"_Was_ being the operative word. You've been divorced for some time. Don't you think it's time you let go? Moved on?"

Dief, who'd been circling under various desks in search of pastries, took that moment to pop his head up and voice ... something. His agreement, Ray thought. He'd been getting pretty good at understanding wolf.

"Do I tell you how to live your life?" he demanded of Fraser — and Dief, if he'd stuck around long enough to read Ray's lips, which he hadn't. "Do I give you unwanted dating advice, Fraser?"

"Yes, you _do_." That was true. Last week, in a fit of insanity, Ray had sort of blown up at Fraser and told him that he needed to find a woman and get laid, pronto. He just had a hunch that if Fraser was actually dating, maybe he wouldn't be able to keep driving Ray crazy with want. Maybe he'd have something else to do with his evenings besides sitting next to Ray on the couch or in the car, looking ridiculously fuckable and being completely untouchable.

"Um, okay, maybe," Ray hedged. Suddenly a light went on. "But it's different! I'm telling you you _should_ try to get out there and date someone and you're telling me I _shouldn't_."

"I'm not saying you shouldn't—" Fraser stopped, looking flustered, which really didn't look like anything at all. Ray figured nobody else could tell from looking at him. "—pursue relationships with other women. I'm only suggesting that you may have exhausted your efforts with this _particular_ woman. Perhaps—" Again he stopped, and this time cleared his throat before continuing. "Perhaps you should consider pursuing someone who hasn't rebuffed your advances so many times."

Ray blinked. Looking at Fraser, who was looking around the squad room at anything but Ray, that almost sounded like a come-on. Well, a Canadian come-on, anyway. Ray shook his head.

"Yeah, thanks," he said. "I'll think about it."

He wouldn't.

***

The thing was, sometimes Ray _didn't_ get rejected.

It wasn't like he was a troll. He wasn't a bad-looking guy, he had good hygiene, drove a cool car — and sometimes the stars aligned and he asked a woman out and she said yes. (Sometimes, once in a blue moon, the stars aligned and he asked a guy for anonymous sex in the back room of a bar, and _he_ said yes. But not often.) The problem was, Ray didn't really want that _yes_, at least not from anyone who wasn't Fraser, and he was never going to get a _yes_ from Fraser because he was never going to _ask_ Fraser.

From what Ray could gather from the evidence available, Fraser was pretty ironclad about being straight, or at least about being unavailable. He'd seen Fraser make eyes at a few different women, but nothing ever seemed to happen with them. Of course, he'd also read the file on the crazy bank robber chick and he figured that would be more than enough to put a guy off of romance for a few decades at least.

Fraser was also a pretty chilled-out guy, and also pretty much a class-A freak, so there was always the possibility that even if the answer was _no_, he'd take it in stride if Ray said to him one day, "Fraser, I'm attracted to you" or "Fraser, I think I'm a little in love with you" or "Fraser, I really want to bone you." But Fraser was also Ray's best and basically only friend, so that wasn't a risk Ray was willing to take, even for the slim chance that he'd actually get that elusive _yes_. He wasn't going to ask.

Also, it would be weird and unfair, he figured, to go after someone else when he was really only into Fraser. Like cheating, but without the orgasms, so really not even rewarding. He was better off waiting for the whole thing to go away on its own and enjoying the company of his own right hand in the meantime.

Ray didn't want to date women. All Ray wanted was the illusion that he wanted to date women.

Ergo, Stella. Stella was a surefire rejection, every time: the one woman Ray could be absolutely certain would shoot him down no matter when or how or how often he asked. She was so damn steady and reliable about rejecting Ray that it almost — _almost_ — made him fall in love with her again. Years of being sucked into the whirlpool of Fraser's batshit unpredictability could make constancy look pretty damn good. In any case, it was good to know that even though they were splitsville and even though she had no idea what was up, she still sort of had his back.

And he'd done such a bang-up job of being crazy for her — really certifiably _crazy_ for her — right after the divorce that everyone just took it as a given that he was crazy for her now.

Looking like he was still in love with his ex-wife wasn't the most dignified position to be in, but it was worlds better than looking like he was in love with Fraser.

"Stella," he said on Friday at work, scrambling to keep up with her as she stalked through the station, "you got any plans for tonight? I got these tickets for the ballet." He actually did have tickets for the ballet; he'd gotten them off a guy he'd hauled in for embezzling money out of little old ladies. Aside from being a criminal, the guy wasn't half bad. "We could maybe have dinner first, talk about the Stuart case, old times — it'll be great." It sounded awful. Sometimes Ray played a little game with himself, trying to come up with the worst-ever theoretical date plans for Stella to reject.

"Ray," she said, world-weary. "Why do you keep asking me out on dates when you know I'm always going to say no?"

Ray froze for a half second before recovering. It was an obvious question, after all. "Uh, I don't know. I guess I keep hoping you'll change your mind," he lied.

Stella sighed and stopped in the middle of the hallway. She turned to face him, placed one manicured hand on her hip, cocked her beautiful blond head, and said with a resigned tone, "Oh, why the hell not."

Before Ray could respond, she turned on her heel, added "Pick me up at seven," and left.

* * *

"There he goes again," said Detective Huey.

Detective Dewey snorted. "Does he ever do any actual police work around here? Or does he just follow his ex around all the time?"

Fraser, seated in the chair on the other side of Ray's desk, followed Ray's progress as he pursued Stella down the hall until together they disappeared around a corner. Dewey's question appeared to have been addressed to him. "It does seem to be quite the hobby," he admitted.

"It's not a hobby — it's a way of life," Francesca said, perching on the edge of Ray's desk and revealing most of her left thigh. "He just doesn't know how to tell when a woman is interested. Fraser, _you_ know how to tell—"

"I'm terribly sorry, you'll have to excuse me," Fraser said abruptly, standing upright. "There's a — ah — Consular emergency." He straightened his lanyard and took off after Ray.

Fraser was sure that there was no real cause for concern, and yet he couldn't help noticing that Ray's overtures toward his ex-wife had grown somewhat more ... _desperate_ ... in recent months. True, he was no longer following Stella on dates — at least not that Fraser had witnessed — but he seemed to take Stella's every visit to the precinct as opportunity to woo her, no matter how many times and no matter how rudely she turned him down. It had grown excruciating, watching Ray throw himself at Stella, watching her spurn him again and again. Fraser ached for his friend — in more ways than one.

Fraser turned a corner just in time to see Stella walk away from Ray, whose shell-shocked expression told him everything. Another rejection, no doubt as painful as all the rest. Fraser sighed. Ray's self-inflicted suffering was almost too much for him to bear, but of course he of all people should have known the strange and destructive lengths to which love could drive a person. He had been short-tempered with Ray in the past, but now he approached gently, without censure. Perhaps he could take Ray's mind off of his troubles. He knew he would be cold comfort to Ray, but some companionship, even from a friend ...

"Ray," he began, "would you like to join me for dinner this evening?"

Ray turned to him, stricken. "Uh. Can't."

Fraser waited for more of an explanation, but when none seemed forthcoming, he said, "Ah, well, perhaps another time, then."

Ray nodded absently, then shuddered, shook his head like a wet dog, and took off back down the hallway.

Concerned — and curious — Fraser followed. He might have just as easily assumed that what Ray wanted and needed was space, but something about his demeanor suggested that Fraser would be wise not to let the matter drop that easily, so he followed Ray back to his desk, behind which Ray slumped, elbows on the surface, burying his face in his hands.

Fraser stood a respectful distance away and inquired, "Is something the matter?"

Ray sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, sending its spikes into greater disarray — a considerable accomplishment. "No, nothing, I just — Fraser, I got a _date_."

Fraser blinked. "With ... ASA Kowalski?"

"'ASA Kowalski,'" Ray muttered. "Yeah. With my ex-wife."

Fraser swallowed and tried to suffuse his voice with warmth. "Congratulations, Ray."

"Yeah," Ray said again. "Thanks."

"You must be very pleased."

"I am. This is great. Greatness." Ray frowned.

Fraser nodded. "Well then," he said, "I wish you the best of luck with ... your endeavors." His hat was sitting on the desk; he picked it up, set it firmly on top of his head, and looked at his father's watch. It was a quarter of five. "If there's nothing else, I'll be returning to the Consulate."

Ray looked up at him — somewhat plaintively, Fraser imagined, and surely it was _only_ his imagination — but didn't say anything, so Fraser left.

* * *

_Aw, crap._

At home, straightening his tie in the mirror, Ray couldn't stop thinking up excuses to cancel. He thought about telling Stella that he'd come down with some kind of horrible disease — leprosy, maybe — but the downside to dating his ex was that she'd always been able to see right through him when he was lying to get out of something.

He'd never paid such close attention to a ballet performance, although to be fair, that wasn't saying much. He watched raptly, eyes and face pointed straight towards the stage, neck stiff, never once glancing over at Stella. He couldn't have said thing one about what the dancers were doing — besides, well, _dancing_ — but anything that kept him from having to look at Stella was captivating enough.

After the curtain, they stepped out into the street and stood near each other. Ray looked down at his shoes. He hadn't had a date with Stella this awkward since he pissed himself in front of her during a bank robbery in 1974.

He shuffled his feet. "So."

"That was very nice, Ray. Thank you," Stella said patiently, like he was five years old and she was praising his latest dried macaroni sculpture.

Ray tugged at the bracelet on his wrist; even in his best ballet-going suit, he kept the bracelet on. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He'd been on enough dates to know that this was the point at which he should ask her if she wanted to get coffee or have a drink or something. Maybe he'd invite her back to his apartment, where there would be the possibility of sex lingering between them the entire time ...

"Uh, there's a place around the corner that does a mean cherry pie," Ray said. Stella had always loved cherry pie, but complained that it made her feel fat and unsexy afterwards. Jackpot. He watched her hesitate and lick her lips, a pained expression on her face, before giving in.

They didn't talk on the way to the restaurant and when they sat down across from each other, she regarded him with a cool gaze, under which he sat uncomfortably.

She cleared her throat. "Ray, what's the real reason you keep asking me out? You were almost normal for a while there, but a few months ago you started up again. I know it's not because you actually want to get back together; you've been looking like a trapped animal all evening."

Ray sat up straight and tried his best not to look like a trapped animal. "Uh, it's the ballet. I think I'm allergic."

A waitress dropped off two pieces of cherry pie and two coffees. Stella took a spoon to her pie, breaking off a tiny bite and raising it to her mouth. Ray wolfed down a third of his in the same amount of time.

Stella frowned. "Ray, do you know why I filed for divorce?"

Ray thought about it. She'd given him at least two hundred reasons at the time. "No," he said, swallowing.

"We weren't good for each other. I was miserable and I blamed you, which made you miserable, which only made me feel worse. We were thirty-five years old, Ray. I wanted a chance at real happiness, and I didn't want to hurt you, but it wasn't _working_.”

Ray played with his food, smearing the cherries on his plate and avoiding her eyes.

“We were living a lie. I couldn't do that anymore. But you're still lying to yourself," she said before taking a bite, "I just don't know _why_."

Ray froze, mouth full, and for half a second it felt like she was staring right through him, right into the darkest and dirtiest Fraser-filled corners of his mind, and he was absolutely sure that she was lying, too. That she knew _exactly_ what he was doing, what he was thinking, the whole stupid charade.

"I did what I had to do to be happy," Stella added a moment later, "even though it was difficult and it scared me and it shook up my entire life and yours, too. I stepped out of my comfort zone. Sometimes, that's what you have to do."

He felt like he was sitting across from some gypsy palm reader. There was no way Stella was just talking about them now, but he couldn't bring himself to ask her how much she'd figured out. He stuck another oversized spoonful of pie in his mouth instead. They ate the rest of it in silence.

It took him until they were outside again, walking back to Ray's car, to finally say, "Stella, I'm sorry."

She raised her eyebrows and he explained, "I shouldn't have kept asking you out all this time. I'm a jerk. And a coward." Neither of which was a revelation, he was pretty sure, but at least after all this time he was man enough to own up to it.

"You're not the worst I've seen," Stella answered. He guessed it was a compliment.

"Did you at least have a good time? With the ballet, I mean?"

"I had a very nice time. But Ray?" She stopped walking gave him a hard glare. "Don't ever ask me out again." She paused, looking away. "Unless you get opera tickets next time."

* * *

He wasn't so steeped in denial as to believe that chance brought him to Ray's apartment building. He'd been thinking about it all evening, fighting the urge, reminding himself that what happened tonight between Ray and Stella was none of his business, that Ray was more than capable of making his own decisions, and most of all that Fraser himself must be deranged to feel this way. He had no stake in Ray's romantic life, no justification for jealousy, and yet there it was. All evening his body had ached to move, to follow, to pursue Ray and — he had no idea what could possibly happen then.

When he'd finally surrendered, Diefenbaker had given him a look of disdain. Even wolves had a better sense of propriety.

Fraser stood on the sidewalk in front of Ray's building, embarrassed, feeling like a madman. He'd already circled the block a number of times and taken a leisurely stroll in a nearby park as the minutes and then hours passed with no sign of Ray's return.

He knew he should leave. What would he do if Ray _did_ return? What could he possibly say? Or would he _hide_?

The absurdity of his position did not escape him. Ray loved Stella, had loved her for nearly a quarter of a century. They were wonderfully matched to each other: childhood sweethearts, schoolmates, now both a part of Chicago's justice system, protectors of their city. They would have had beautiful children. Perhaps they still would — Ray had wanted children, Fraser knew, and perhaps Stella would change her mind about that just as she'd apparently changed her mind about Ray's advances. How fortunate for her, to have not only a first but also a second chance.

No doubt at the end of their date, she had invited Ray to come inside. To stay. How could she have possibly resisted his charm, his kindness, his beauty, his desire? She must have invited him in. Fraser could see them, falling into each other's arms, relearning the familiar shapes of each other's mouths, moving together ... making love.

He was incontrovertibly foolish. He felt ashamed of his actions and of himself. He would return to the Consulate immediately, have a cup of tea and perhaps a cold shower, and forget the entire mess. He'd work on earning Ray's forgiveness tomorrow.

Fraser turned around, lifted his head, and found himself staring directly at the stunned face of Ray Kowalski.

* * *

When Stella kissed him on the cheek and disappeared into her big, expensive, lawyer apartment, leaving Ray alone with his jumble of thoughts, he did what any normal man would do under the circumstances: he drove to the nearest bar and proceeded to get hammered.

_I stepped out of my comfort zone_, Stella had said. Easy enough for her; all getting out of her comfort zone meant was dumping her loser husband and getting a fabulous new life. Besides, Ray liked his comfort zone. There was a reason it was called a _comfort_ zone: it was comfortable. It felt like home: the home he'd had before his brain decided to burn down the house and make the mental move north — far, far north.

So what if home was a place where the only comforting, reliable thing was knowing that Stella was always going to turn him down?

Okay, so maybe his home sucked a little.

But that wasn't all he had. He also had Fraser, who was crazy and unpredictable and nearly gave Ray a heart attack at least once a week, but who was as dependable at being there for Ray as Stella was in rejecting him. Plus, Fraser came with another constant: the what-if. The possibility that someday, somehow, the stars might _really_ align for Ray and not only would he be able to ask, but Fraser would finally say _yes_. It was distant and remote but at least it was there. He didn't want to lose the what-if.

Christ, his home sucked. Time to call in the renovators.

He wandered out of the bar two hours later and much worse for the wear, and decided — wrongly, as it happened — that he was close enough to his place to walk. An indeterminate amount of time later, he staggered around a corner and saw ... yeah, that was Fraser all right, in his off-work jeans and sweater, standing awkwardly in front of Ray's building, his head bowed, lost in thought.

Fraser looked up as Ray moved closer and an expression of horror crossed his face before vanishing. "Ray!"

"Hey, Frase," he said casually, proud of himself for not slurring. "Just in the neighborhood?"

It was dark, but the blush still showed itself on Fraser's cheeks. "Ray," he began, a strangled sound, "I am sincerely sorry—"

"Don't worry about it." Ray waved his hand in what he hoped was a don't-worry-about-it gesture. Fraser still looked like he was worrying about it, though.

Fraser cleared his throat. "How was your date?"

"Great," Ray said automatically, and then cringed. He would have slapped himself if he wasn't already banking on having a hell of a hangover headache the next morning. What the hell was he doing? Why the lie? It was instinct to him, a habit, like the way he automatically answered to the name "Vecchio" now and to a dozen other strangers' names before. Ray Kowalski: undercover as a guy who still wants his ex-wife and absolutely, positively does _not_ want his Mountie partner, and Christ if that didn't suddenly feel just as hollow and lonely as any other undercover gig.

"No," he amended, "it was terrible, Fraser."

They stood staring at each other for a few moments, Fraser with his controlled face and a tiny, uncomprehending frown in his eyes, until Ray suddenly laughed and added, "Wow, that was a terrible date."

Something crossed Fraser's face: sympathy mixed with relief. "I'm sorry, Ray. I know how much this date meant to you."

"It didn't mean what you think. She did help me figure some stuff out, though." And Fraser was helping him figure other stuff out. Like him being here now, outside of Ray's apartment. That wasn't an accident, no matter what Fraser said, and while it might have been Fraser being concerned about Ray as a friend, it sure looked a hell of a lot like something else. Like jealousy, like panic — God, almost like stalking. And Ray knew that kind of stalking, that sad desperation, and he felt sick at the thought that _Fraser_ was doing it, for _him_ of all people. Fraser should never have to want something or someone that badly, least of all Stanley Raymond "I followed my ex-wife around on dates for a year and oh, did I mention I'm afraid to tell my partner I'm in love with him?" Kowalski. Fraser should never have to stare at anyone with that look in his eyes, that beaten-down look weighing heavy on a flicker of hope and the expectation of the worst.

Forget that.

Later, Ray would credit his courage to Fraser's hopeful-painful eyes and not to his own blood alcohol content, but whatever the source, he walked right up to Fraser, put his hands on either side of Fraser's face, and kissed him. There was a split-second in which Fraser froze and didn't kiss back, and if Ray had been more together, he might have noticed it and felt his heart sink. But he wasn't, and he didn't, and then the moment had passed and Fraser's arms were around him, Fraser's tongue was in his mouth, and Fraser was saying _yes_ so clearly he was practically singing it.

"I've been thinking," Ray said when they broke apart.

"You've been _drinking_," Fraser said, disappointed.

"Liquid courage." When Fraser's frown didn't disappear, Ray grabbed him and kissed him again. "Lighten up, Fraser. This isn't some rebound thing. I just spent five months humiliating myself in front of Stella and the entire world just so nobody would figure out I got the hots for you. Gimme a break already."

Fraser, for probably the only time ever, was actually speechless.

"Anyway, I've been thinking about what you said, about me moving on and maybe trying my luck with someone who hasn't shot me down so much. I'm thinking I might be ready to move on. Make my move. Get moving." He did a little foot-shuffling dance in the middle of the sidewalk. Damn, he was really going to have to remember to leave a pile of aspirin and a glass of water next to the bed tonight. "You wanna, you know — you think you might be interested? Wanna move with me?"

Fraser's face was warm and open and his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

Years later, Ray's apparent enthusiasm for moving would become a matter of temporary dispute when Fraser asked him to _actually_ move — to Canada — although as it turned out, Ray's comfort zone was wider than he'd realized.

Up, down, south, north — way, way north — moving on wasn't so bad when he had Fraser along for the ride.


End file.
